The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Stilinski
by BittahWizard
Summary: Petrestophilis discovers that a mortal has been double-crossing his crossroads demons. He decides to accept the mortal's next summons himself. Or, the Faustian AU where Stiles is a Not-So-Good doctor who dabbles in duping demons. WIP.
1. Chorus: An Affront to Blank Verse

Have you heard of Deals with Devils?

Perhaps made one in the dark?

Fools and geniuses both have fallen this way,

But of the original we must never forget;

Doctor Faustus was a genius blinded by his pursuits,

Of Magics and Knowledge and the Eternal,

His story wasn't burdened by Love, Fame, or Heroics,

Only his deeds were told;

There is something to infer from such a tale,

For we are all Doctor Faustus in a way,

But as much as I enjoy a good Tragedy,

The greatest stories always have a bit _more_—

So this story will look past its predecessor,

Tell a tale with Humor, and Loss, and Love,

Thankfully, it won't be in blank verse,

Because then both you and I, dear reader, would cry;

This story is of Magic and a Man,

One whose wit is far above his peers,

And with a love long lost driving him,

To stand in crossroads and make clever deals;

He is a Man of common stock,

From a family that traveled the country—

Bouncing from town to town,

Our Good Doctor now resides, settled, in California;

After years of collegiate success,

Of great achievement without much effort,

This Man can now call himself titled,

Doctor Stilinski is one without equal;

Like Faustus, he is full of cunning and self-conceit,

Flying with wings, now charred, too high in the heavens,

Not caring about the consequences,

Stiles Stilinski indulges in intellectual bliss;

Now without further ado,

I shall start this dark and humorous tale,

To do so, we must first enter Hell,

Please allow me to introduce to you, the First Duke of the Pit, Petrestophilis Hale.


	2. Scene 1: The Devil Goes Down to Cali

Petrestophilis chuckles to himself as he closes his laptop. He never gets tired of trolling humans on the internet. It's one of his favorite leisure activities.

He sighs, content—stretching his arms over his head and sprawling even lower in his leather chaise lounge.

Reaching for his goblet, he snickers, remembering that the soul he took it from had thought it to be the Holy Grail.

Fool.

Petrestophilis has the real one in his cupboard. He uses it for coffee sometimes.

He picks up the jewel-encrusted cup, only to find it empty. He frowns.

"Pagius!" he bellows, the sound reverberating through his cavernous rooms—his smug mood now eclipsed by a dry goblet.

Quick footsteps sound outside his chambers. There's a hard rap at his door. "Come in, gnat!"

"I apologize, My Lord," Pagius says as she enters Peter's parlor.

Petre dangles the empty chalice from his fingertips and clears his parched throat.

"Right away, My Lord," she says as she grabs the cup and scurries into the kitchen.

Petrestophilis rubs a clawed hand across his eyes, and calls out, "You're still looking quite pale, Pagius."

"Yes, indeed, My Lord," she shouts back. "What exactly are you drinking? Is it this…"—a confused pause—"_Mountain Dew Code Red?_"

He grins. "Yes, gnat! That's the stuff!" He hums, considering. "Now back to your frightfully pale skin—I think you should start frequenting the magma baths more. Maybe the heat will turn your skin a nice shade of red." His grin turns as sharp as his fangs. "Or maybe all of your skin will melt off," he mutters to himself, rather happy at the idea of his appointed pest taking a sick day.

"What a good idea, My Lord," Pagius simpers as she returns to the sitting room. She hands over the goblet with a bow of her head. "I know how my appearance bothers you, Sir."

_Father_, this underling is good. She's lasted much longer than any of the Queen's other lackeys. It must be the vacuous expression. Or the polite smile—after all, who's polite here? it's _Hell_. Maybe it's the smaller than average horns.

Either way, he's impressed.

No wonder his nephew is so taken with her.

Petre takes a deep inhale of his drink.

Ah, sugar and Red Dye #40—his favorite. He takes a long drink.

Humans really do know how to make the _worst _concoctions.

It's wonderful.

He licks his lips, satisfied, and then opens his eyes.

"And, why, dear gnat, are you still in my quarters?" Petrestophilis asks, voice deceptively bored.

She bows her head lower. "The Queen wishes to see you, My Lord."

Another drink.

"I don't know why she would ever need to speak to me—we both know that she has you to keep her updated," he purrs, eyes dead.

Pagius turns even paler.

Petrestophilis sighs. "Well, fuck." He rises from his seat, towering over the lesser demon. "Shouldn't keep the bitch waiting."

* * *

He enters the throne room as he so often does—as silent as a shadow and just as unseen. His sister continues holding court, prattling on about introducing a new electrocution method that saves on energy output and squashing the lesser demons' millionth attempt at forming a union.

No one even notices when he arrives.

Not Taliziana, Ruling Queen of Hell, who definitely should.

Not Laradanum, First Princess and Keeper of the Circles, who is too busy scheming for a shot at the throne to realize much of _anything_.

Not Derrekis, First Prince and Commander of the Seven, who, rather out of character, is fidgeting—lost in…nervous? thought.

Not even Corinthe, Second Princess and Master of the Hunt, notices him. Petrestophilis trained her to be better than her siblings. She'll be paying for her slip. Muzzling her favorite hellhound will do the trick quite nicely.

All of them—High Demons. All of them—completely useless.

They are supposed to be Hell's monarchs. His rulers, his family, his _betters_.

Petrestophilis snorts inelegantly into his cup of Code Red at the thought.

All four members of the royal family turn to look at where he's perched against one of the room's obsidian columns. He toasts them with his glass. "Wonderful to see you, my dear family."

At Petre's words, Derrekis begins to squirm even more.

Interesting.

Laradanum wrinkles her nose. "Drinking _soda_ again, I smell."

"Jealous, Laura?" Petre steps into the shadows, reappearing suddenly right in front of his niece. He has to suppress a smirk at her flinch. "Would you like some?"

A small shake of her crowned head. "No."

Petrestophilis takes a step back. "More for me." He looks his family over once more. "Well, as good as it is to see you all, I am rather busy at the moment. I'll just be on my way." And then he turns his back on the Devil herself.

She, of course, does not like it.

"Petre," his sister barks.

He halts halfway through the room's archway. "Yes, Talia?"

He hears her hiss at the nickname. 'Tis such a sweet sound.

"I have a few matters to go over with you—in regard to your…methods."

Petrestophilis turns to face his Queen. He bows his head. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

His sister taps a claw against her throne, red eyes trying to rip his eternal essence to shreds. "Have you been making Adolf Hitler watch…" she clicks her fingers, and a small blue demon hands her a scroll, "…_Inglourious Basterds _for the last decade whilst hanging upside down from his entrails?"

"Yes."

"And have you been forcing a vegan to consume human flesh?"

"Yes."

She gives him The Look from over her scroll. "_Really_, Petre?"

He shrugs, unconcerned. "Vegans can be pedophiles, too." He gives her a wan smile. "The world is an imperfect place."

Talia turns back to reading. "The Bigfoot sightings?"

"Guilty."

"The 70-foot python set loose at the world premiere of the latest Adam Sandler comedy film?"

"With pleasure."

"The cocoa bean crisis?"

"Yep."

Talia sets the scroll on fire; it burns so hot it disappears into the air. "I have been informed that PETA's Terms and Conditions for their website membership and mailing list contains a binding soul contract." Corinthe covers up a laugh with a hacking cough. Taliziana gives her a glare, and then turns back to Petre. "Would you happen to know anything about this?"

"I was having a good day and decided to make it even better."

His sister nods.

He waits for her verdict.

"It seems all of it holds up to your usual standards for chaos and torture. You have been quite…inventive, baby brother." She gives him a smile, both kind and cruel. "I am impressed. Keep up the good work." She dismisses him with a flick of her wrist. "You may leave now."

His family returns to their politicking.

He gives his nephew one last analytical glance, and then disappears into his shadows without another word.

* * *

"What do you want, Nephew?"

Derrekis emerges from a corner of Petre's favorite dining room.

"How did you know it was me?"

Petrestophilis tries not to laugh at the Prince—after all, the shadows never took to the boy like they did to Petre.

"Because I have eyes, Derrek. Now what do you want?" He gestures to his food. "I'm trying to enjoy my meal, but it's hard to do that when you have that constipated expression on your face."

Derrek takes a seat at Petre's left. "I have something important to tell you, Uncle. I do not think that it can wait any longer."

Petre raises a questioning eyebrow and starts to cut into his steak. "Do tell."

"Well," Derrekis looks over each of his broad shoulders quickly. "Ever since mother promoted me to Commander, most things on Earth have run smoothly. I allow Lust, Pride and their cousins to run amuck and have a little fun—"

"Yes, we're all very proud of you, Derrekis."

Derrek scowls. "You never let me finish, Petre! Where was—yes, so, while I was up there last week, I was confronted by one of our crossroads demons. She approached me in a bar, fading right before my eyes, and told me a story." His own slitted eyes flash ruby red. "A very disturbing story."

Petrestophilis can practically taste the agitation radiating from Derrek. It does _not_ pair nicely with his wine.

"She told me how she was recently summoned by a Mage—one with very little power and a lot of greed in his heart. She answered his call and drew up a standard contract."

Derrek pauses.

Petre huffs impatiently and stabs his knife into the table. "_And?_"

"And after she signed it, and after the contract went into effect, she noticed the sigils were wrong."

"What do you mean, _wrong?_"

Derrek leans closer. "The Mage had somehow doctored the document while he was signing it. And then he banished her from the earthly plane. _Permanently_."

Petre stands up quickly, shocked for the first time in his entire existence—knocking over his chair in the process.

"So powerful and deceptive was his true magic," Derrek continues, "that he was not only able to cloak it, but also able to swindle the demon out of her own. She's recuperating deep within the Pit. I do not expect her to regain even a _tenth_ of her original power." He slumps in his chair. "She will never walk topside again."

"Impossible," Petrestophilis whispers as he begins to pace.

"That is not the worst of the tale, Uncle."

Petre freezes, and then lunges at his nephew. Grabbing the lapels of Derrek's coat, he shakes him. "Elaborate."

"After I brought her back to Hell, she told me that she was not the only demon to fall."

Petre's hands slacken.

"She had heard rumors of a dark practitioner sucking the power from those it summoned, but they were considered nonsense—simply a horror story for bored crossroads demons. I went through our records after hearing her tale, and in the past ten years, over 20 crossroads demons have perished."

Petrestophilis sits back down slowly.

"The clerks have written them off as we usually do—died in combat with hunters, supernatural creatures, angels—you know, the typical ways in which they die. But, I looked back farther in the records, and statistically, those 20 deaths within that period of time shows a 93% increase from the average." Derrek sighs. "It was an anomaly that she lived at all."

Silence falls between them.

"Have you told your mother yet?"

Derrek laughs darkly. "No."

Petre steeples his fingers. "Did you get the name of the mortal?"

"Yes," Derrek passes him a sheaf of papers. "His name is Doctor Mieczysław Stilinski. He lives in California, but he's used crossroads from several different states."

Petrestophilis takes out the single photograph within the stack. Sharp, honeyed eyes stare back at him.

Powerful, clever, _and_ beautiful.

"What are you thinking?" Derrek finally asks after several more silent minutes.

"What am I thinking?" Peter murmurs as he strokes a claw down the picture. "I think I'm in love."


End file.
